


(Don't Fear)

by heyshalina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester-centric, Dean's Michael Trauma, Demons, Gen, Gore, Hurt Dean Winchester, Michael Possessing Adam Milligan, Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s15e06 Golden Time, Season/Series 15, canon compliant until s15e07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22026082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyshalina/pseuds/heyshalina
Summary: He can hear Sam walking back down the hallway. He can feel the rain on his skin. He can see Adam’s mangled body falling, crashing back into the ground, and the power surge within his veins. He can feel himself, no longer breathing. There is nothing else but this.He can feel the wind. Why can’t he hear it?“Do you see it now, Dean?” Billie asks. “Do you see how this has to end?”
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, background Dean Winchester/Castiel
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	(Don't Fear)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still stuck on this whole Michael thing, really. And a lot of signature supernatural plot holes. I'll address my vague thought processes at the end.
> 
> Not as long of a story this time, but I just couldn't get it out of my head.
> 
> Some content warnings for descriptions of gore, as well as Dean's thoughts and vaguely suicidal headspace, although this all takes place in nightmares and altered idealizations. Title is from Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear the Reaper.
> 
> Enjoy!

_The bar is dark, the only light coming from a lone overhead bulb. It swings gently in an unseen wind, a shaky illumination that only darkens the shadows. Broken glass litters the wet counter, liquid dripping languidly onto the floor. The door rattles, but it makes no noise._

_Dean stares at himself, the lines of his face detailed as though the cracked glass of the freezer window is a pristine hotel mirror. The face that looks back at him is weary, battle-torn, but at the same time unblemished. His hair is neater than it’s ever been. For some reason, it’s this that strikes a chord of fear inside of him._

_He can feel the wind. Why can’t he hear it?_

_“What do you want.” It’s not a question. It’s barely anything at all._

_"_ _The only thing that has changed in this scenario,” The face looms closer, voice clear despite the barrier between them. There is nothing else but this. “Is you. Are you starting to understand?”_

_Dean shakes his head. He goes to take a step back, but the floor has disappeared. There is no bar, no light, no glass. Only him and the door. “Leave me alone.”_

_“Oh, come now,” His face tilts the side, inquisitive and layered with disappointment. “I knew you were stubborn, but I didn’t think you were that naïve.”_

_“What do you mean?” He can’t look away. The only light comes from inside the freezer, now. From his eyes._

_“Our interests have always been the same.” Michael’s hand reaches for the handle and opens the door, impossibly slow and calm. He steps forward to gently entangle his fingers in Dean’s shirt. “You just haven’t been able to see yourself, see_ us _, in the correct light until now.”_

_Michael’s eyes glow softly as he brings his face close to Dean’s, but his mouth is brought up in a snarl. Dean’s heartbeat ricochets in his chest. He can feel it, but he can’t hear it. All he can hear is his voice, the sound of rushing water. There is nothing else but this._

_“You, Dean Winchester, are nothing but inevitability.” His hand comes down to meet his face, squeezing his cheeks and forcing his mouth open as the water rises to his chest. “Nothing but a means to the end.”_

_“No –” Dean’s protest is lost as Michael wrenches his head back, and the water pours down his throat._

Dean jerks awake, shoving away phantom hands and rolling over on the bedspread. He lets his body heave in deep breaths, clenching his hands into fists and his eyes closed. A door shuts farther down the hallway, and Dean rises into a sitting position, shaking out his shoulders. A few seconds later, there’s a light knock on his door, and he drags a trembling hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly, and Sam opens the door, peeking his long body halfway through.

“Hey,” Sam says, looking him up and down with a suspicious look on his face. “You good?”

“Yeah, yep,” Dean replies, trying to look like he’s convincingly awake and put together at…5pm. Great. “Just peachy. What’s up?”

“I’m gonna go make a run,” Sam says. “Eileen needs some real clothes to wear, she can’t wear my old hoodie and the other hunters’ stuff forever.”

By the other hunters’ stuff, he means whatever of Mom’s or Maggie’s they had that fit. Dean half appreciates, half hates that Sam wouldn’t say it.

“Okay, sure.” Dean reaches for his phone, turning it over in his hands. No new messages. He looks up, and Sam is still staring at him. “What?”

“Do you, I don’t know, want to come?” Sam asks. “Do you need anything?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, you two lovebirds go, I’m all good.”

Sam furrows his eyebrows. “We’re…whatever, fine. Text me if you want anything, I guess.”

As Sam moves out of the doorway, Dean makes an excited noise in the back of his throat. “Oh. Sam. Bacon.”

“No, Dean.”

He waits until Sam is out of earshot before sinking back into the bed. “Buzzkill.”

He tries to watch some videos on his tablet, but he quickly gets bored. Reading quickly results in the words swimming around on the page, and he throws the book down on the bed. Dean doesn’t want to go back to sleep, but lately he’s just felt so damn drained. He snatches his headphones off of his side table, leaning back against the pillows and putting on some music to try to relax. Blue Öyster Cult echoes through his ears. His stomach growls, but he ignores it.

He lets the music lead him into a meditative state, listening as Sam and Eileen leave, closing the front bunker door behind them. At first, the music is soothing, and he lets his eyes close, his lips tracing the words. It’s almost like blasting music behind Baby’s wheel – he’d go for a drive, but it’s crappy outside, and the garage feels far away. Everything feels far away.

Dean doesn’t realize the music has changed, doesn’t realize he’s moved until he’s sitting upright again, the music static in his ears as he stares at his desk. He looks down at his iPod. The music is still playing, but he can’t hear it. It’s like everything has been replaced by the ocean, soothing bass switched out by a washing nothing. He stands and opens the drawer, fingers flicking newspapers and pictures aside to grab the binding of a sleek, black book.

It’s not the first time Dean has had a nightmare that’s felt more than real. He’s been trying to push them away, with everything that’s been happening with Jack, and then…Mom, and God, and everything else. But he keeps coming back to the book.

The air shifts behind him, and Dean tenses. Something drops in his stomach. He doesn’t want to look.

“I didn’t call for you,” he grates out, his voice a knife scraped on gravel.

“Didn’t have to,” A voice says, and he still won’t look. “Thought it was time we had a chat.”

“Not in the mood for having friends over,” Dean returns. “Rather be alone.”

“Don’t presume we’re friends, Dean Winchester.” Billie takes a step closer to him, and makes no sound. “Lest I need to remind you, I am not my predecessor.”

“What do you want now?” Dean tears his gaze away from the wall to look at Billie. Whenever she comes, it feels like all the atmosphere has been sucked from the room – like they’re the only people in the universe, in this room. It reminds Dean of his nightmares. He despises it.

“I want you to open your eyes,” Billie snaps, and gestures to the book in Dean’s hand. “You lie to Sam about what the book says, you get rid of the Michael riding shotgun in your head, and now what? You’re lying in your own filth, doing nothing.”

“Look who’s talkin’.”

“I’m the one who told you about the Malek box in the first place,” Billie says. “You should be grateful.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t work.”

Billie crosses her arms. “That’s not my problem.”

Dean huffs and looks at the door. “If what the book says is true, it doesn’t matter anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean you do nothing.”

“You sound like my brother. You must be really impatient for me to kick the bucket.” Billie doesn’t respond. “Is it still the only book?”

Billie’s lips turn into the slightest frown. “It’s still the only one.”

Dean sets the book down on the desk. He takes a breath, swallows the static. “I’m not ready.”

“No one ever is,” Billie says. “The way I see it, this universe isn’t ready to end over you. Thought you could use the extra motivation. I look forward to taking you to the other side.”

“You really know how to make a guy feel special,” Dean retorts, but Billie is gone. He snorts. Figures. No less cryptic than the last entity of Death.

He decides to go to the kitchen, if only to get out of his bedroom. He sets about washing the dishes, but only manages to turn the water on before slamming it off again. He thinks about his nightmare, and has to fight back the rise of nausea. Sammy is the one that’s supposed to have stupid, God-connected dreams. Sammy’s always been the special one.

That, Dean supposes, is the whole point.

He makes a mug of coffee and takes it back to his room. He sits on the end of the bed, flipping through the short, few pages of the black book and listening to the beat of his own heart. Sam and Eileen come back, and Dean hides the book away again; he accepts the container of pad thai Sam gives him, but only manages a few bites before he deposits that on the desk as well. He texts Cas in a moment of weakness, just asking him where he is. He doesn’t receive a reply. He puts his headphones back on his ears. He leans back, leaves the lights on, and waits for the music to return to static.

.

Dean hovers outside of the kitchen. Sam and Eileen are inside, and they haven’t noticed him yet. They’re surrounding a bowl on the counter, a griddle on the stove. Eileen is laughing, showing Sam her hands; she places the knuckles of her right hand down on her left, and then flips it over. Sam tries to copy her, shoulders hitching in silent embarrassment.

Pancakes, Dean realizes. They’re making pancakes.

Sam tries again, and Eileen laughs out loud, bending at the waist. Her hand catches Sam’s forearm, and Sam’s other hand comes to her elbow to hold her up. It’s been a few days since they went to buy her new clothes. She’s wearing new jeans and a soft flannel; Dean looks a second too long, and sees Sam’s thumb sweep across the fabric, a small motion.

Dean turns around. He knows, now, what he has to do.

Before Eileen, he thinks he could have gotten away with it. Not taking the one out they had, the one chance to beat this thing. Without Eileen, Dean may have been selfish enough to take Sam down with him. Now, watching Cas walk away, watching Sam laugh in the kitchen, he doesn’t think he has the strength. Ever since Jessica, Dean’s been looking for Sam to have happiness in his eyes. There was Ruby, there was Amelia, and those were different, but this. Dean can’t jeopardize this.

Sam deserves to be happy. He deserves to live whatever life he decides to live, not whatever Dean thinks is best for him. They could go live an apple-pie life. They could stay as hunters, live together in the bunker. They could just be friends, but they would be safe. Sam deserves to be safe, once and for all.

He walks back to his room, kicking off his slippers and shucking his robe. He pulls on his jeans, finds a clean shirt and a flannel. His boots need a good cleaning, but that can wait. It takes only five minutes to shove a few articles of clothing and a few weapons into a duffle. He puts the book in last, looking at his phone in one last-ditch attempt before shoving that in as well. He stands there for a moment, shuddering out breath after breath. He hears Sam’s voice from down the hall.

It’s always been ridiculously easy to slink through the bunker halls without being heard. That doesn’t change now, as Dean makes his way to the library to grab a couple spell books, and then to the garage. He slides behind the wheel of the Impala, throwing his duffle into the backseat and starting the engine. He pulls out into the driveway silently, pausing for a second to stare at the bunker walls.

“I’ll come back,” he whispers, mostly to himself. “I’ll come back and say goodbye.”

.

The demon he needs is ridiculously easy to find. It’s all a little unfair. Dean was hoping it would all be harder to pull off.

“Dean Winchester,” the demon purrs, wearing the suit of a 30-something brunette woman. She’s wearing leggings and a loose, tie-dye shirt. She looks like she could be a young mom, about to drop the kids off at day care and go to yoga. Dean has to swallow down his discomfort. At this point, it just feels like gas.

“That’s me.” He ignores the way the demon looks him up and down, like it wants to ravage him in more ways than one. He’s really so over it.

_The things you did to those people. It wasn’t torture. It was art._

He furrows his eyebrows. He doesn’t want to think about Jack, or Belphegor, right now. Doesn’t want to think about hell, doesn’t want to think about anything but the task at hand.

“Here I was, just hanging around this lonely old graveyard,” The demon says. “Harlan is just _not_ a happening town, but I figured this is where it all began, right? Something was bound to happen. And here you are. Happening.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says. “Whatever. I want to make a deal.”

“Haven’t you heard?” The demon rises from where it was perched leaning against a gravestone. It steps over a discarded body on the ground (they never really looked into cleaning that up) to come closer to him. “No one’s on the throne downstairs. Hasn’t been a collector in some time. Yeah, I used to make deals, but I’m bored of those now.”

“What do you want?” Dean asks gruffly. The demon smiles.

“How about you tell me what you want from _me_ , and I’ll tell you what I think would be _fun_.”

Dean smiles in return, but it’s empty. His hand absently fidgets with the exposed gun at his side.

“I want you to pop back downstairs,” Dean says. “Get a message to the Cage.”

“The Cage?” The demon asks, face suddenly pale. Dean nods.

_Last I heard, he was just sitting there._

“Need someone to tell Mike I wanna talk to him,” He hopes his voice is coming across with more confidence than he feels. “That’s all.”

“That’s _all_?” The demon cries. “You want me to just trapeze back into hell, where, by the way, there are demons and souls that _didn’t_ get out busting at the seams, and just stroll into the Cage to talk to Michael?”

“That’s about the idea,” Dean replies, slowly fishing an angel blade from his jacket. The demon rolls its eyes. “But it’s your choice. I can kill you, or you can help me out.”

It narrows its gaze. “What do I get?”

“Name your price.”

The demon stares at him for a moment, and then smiles. “You’re lucky I’ve been so bored.”

“Always here to spice things up.”

“That you are.” The demon pauses. “Hmm. I’ll have to think about it. But don’t think I’m not cashing in on that fun. I always get my end of my deals.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Dean says, and the demon winks at him before expelling out of the body in a billowing stream of black smoke. He stares at the vessel for a moment, realizing that the woman is dead. Probably has been, for at least a little while.

Dean groans and leans against a tree, holding his head in his hand. He’s never met a more agreeable demon in his whole damn life. Why is this so easy?

He was hoping for some sort of, whatever, some sort of sign. Something. Anything to suggest to him that this isn’t the right move. Instead, it just feels like everything’s sliding into place, and it makes him feel sick on so many levels. Every time Dean made a life-altering decision, it was always spur of the moment, instinctual, drastic. Then he dealt with it after. Every time he was faced with making a difficult, thought-out choice, he’d always choked. Why can’t he choke now?

Dean’s gaze rises from his palm to the center of the graveyard. He can see himself there, the gun raised and aimed true at Jack’s skull. He could have ended it then. Jack would have died, he would have died, Cas and Sam would have gone home. The end.

Every ending before this would have been better. And he’d always choked. He’d been playing a gamble his whole life and now he’s paying the price.

Dean’s breath hitches, and he shoves his forearm into the bark of the tree, trying to keep it together. He drags a hand over his face, trying to keep his selfish thoughts at bay. This is the only card he has left to draw. This is the only way. He can do this.

After a moment of breathing and staring at the bugs in the grass, his thoughts waver. He finds himself thinking of Cas. It’s true that he’s still angry, still furious for Mary, for Cas refusing to find a way to bring her back. Furious that she died. But for every ounce of himself that’s angry with Cas, twice as much is angry with himself.

It’s better this way, he thinks. To find an end with Cas angry with him, with both Sam and Cas focused on doing good. They can do good without him. They always have been able to.

He tries to convince himself that Sam won’t view it all as him giving up. He’s not giving up. If it defeats God, then it’s worth it. Billie’s shown him both hands. All that’s left to do is play what he’s got.

_Yeah, but if he got out, I mean…he wouldn’t hold a grudge, right?_

Behind him, there’s a ragged sound; he turns around to see a slow, creeping serpentine of smoke. It curls around the grass and finds its way to the woman’s body, seeping into her skin like sewage into the ground. After a moment, the demon rises up with the body, leaning on the nearest corpse and then a gravestone for support. Dean doesn’t need to be in hell to know what a dying demon looks like. It’s wounded, damaged, and still it came back. When it looks up at him, he only sees fear in its eyes.

“He says to meet him in Stull.”

.

Sam calls him two hours into his drive to Stull, which is pretty much right on time according to Dean’s prediction. Going to Harlan was a milk run, barely a half an hour from the bunker, but reaching the other side of the state was another story. He’s tempted, for a moment, to answer the call, but then swallows it down. He turns up the music and presses his foot on the gas.

He stops for fuel a half hour out, wanting to leave Baby as well taken care of as he possibly can, and pulls out his phone. Sam’s left him five texts, and three voicemails. He pushes on the latest one and tugs the phone up to his ear.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam’s voice is gruff. Someone talks in the distance behind him, and Sam shushes them gently. “ _Answer the goddamn phone. You can’t just take off like – look. I’ve been worried about you, I know you’ve been worried too. About my visions, and God, and. Just, just don’t be off doing anything stupid, okay? I told you we’d figure this out together. Call me back_.”

Sam huffs in frustration, and Dean smiles despite himself.

“ _Please just be at Walmart or something doing a run_ ,” Sam says. “ _I swear to…call me back_.”

The voicemail disconnects, and the pump clicks; Dean deposits it back in the holster and closes the fuel cap. For a moment he listens to the rumble of the car’s engine as it roars to life, and then he pulls back onto the road.

“Sorry, Sammy,” he says, clenching his phone in his fist. “No goodbye tours this time.”

The phone vibrates again in his hand, and he chances a glance at it. It’s Castiel.

He tosses it out the open window.

.

_His world exists in complete darkness. It’s the absence of what makes life tangible. It’s the absence of anything at all, sable and empty. It’s what’s been waiting for him all this time. It is inevitable._

_At the end of it all, a hand reaches out to him. His heartbeat is erratic, his palm sweaty as the hand intertwines with his fingers, then grasps his wrist in a vice. Another hand reaches out to settle intimately behind his head, thumb rubbing behind his ear. Alastair gazes into him, his grip tightening to pull on his hair. Dean is afraid._

_“Today?” He asks._

_Alastair nods, and he is smiling. “Today.”_

.

It is pouring by the time he reaches Stull, the rain coming down in thick, violent sheets. Despite this, when Dean parks the car inside of the far gates, he can see small fires in the grass, smoke coming up to meet the downpour in a battle of wills. For a moment, he just holds his hands on the steering wheel, white-knuckled.

Just the sight of the cemetery makes his breath hitch. Ten years has done nothing to curb the primal fear that courses through his veins being within the plot walls. Even the tree he’s parked beneath exudes a deeply unsettling energy. Dean never felt like this, not in Purgatory, not in the alternate universes. It’s always this.

He gets out the car before he can fully chicken out and drive back out of the gates, slipping the keys into the wheel well and walking away. He drags his hand on the hood, and lets it fall as he goes. It’s okay. He’s going to come back, he’s going to say goodbye.

He wanders the grounds for a few minutes, the water pelting him relentlessly and soaking him to the bone. He thinks that Sam is probably freaking out by now, calling people, tracking his phone. Dean stares at one of the fires and tries to push his thoughts away. He doesn’t want to think about his brother right now.

He hasn’t forgotten who Michael had worn when he went down.

There’s no acknowledgement, no greeting – just the slight sound amidst the rain, the softest humming. _Then Came the Last Days of May._ Dean turns around slowly, and sees him ten feet away, feet half submerged in mud near a gravestone. The water continues to pound around them, and Dean wipes his face. The body before him can barely be called human. The torn, bloodied remains of Adam Milligan have rotted away, leaving an unidentifiable mass of burn marks and ruined clothing. Even now Dean can see blood running from the undersides of his half-brother’s arms, as though he has had a never-ending source all this time. It washes away in the rain, diluting and dripping pink into the ground. One of Adam’s eyes is missing, the hole scorched and gory. It reminds Dean of Jack in a way that leaves him sick.

“Did you forget, Dean?” Michael asks. Adam’s voice is destroyed, a far cry from the echo of himself Dean remembers. There is a slash across Adam’s throat, and it oozes blood as he speaks. “Did you forget the things you left behind?”

“No,” Dean says, voice gruff and washed away by the rain. “I can never forget.”

“And yet,” Michael gestures at his vessel, the fingers on his hand bent at varying angles. “You leave them to die.”

“I didn’t want to, I –” Dean looks at the ground before bringing his eyes up again. “I had to make a choice, and I made it. It was Sam.”

Michael regards him. “I understand, Dean. You forget, I too had a favorite brother.”

_You can pretend all you want. But sooner or later you’re going to have to face up to who you really are._

“And now you’re the only one left.”

“Fitting,” Michael says. “But you of all people should know that these things have a way of going in circles.”

The rain plasters Adam’s hair to his forehead. In some way, it makes him look young.

“You know why I’m here.”

“Even God himself is not omnipotent,” Michael scorns. “I know why _I_ am here, Dean Winchester. And I know the state of the world. As you have been so careful to remind every angel in heaven, we do not control why you do anything. Because of?”

Dean swallows, his eyebrows furrowed. The archangel continues.

“Free will. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

They stare at each other for a few long moments, as Dean finds the words behind his courage.

“The other Michael,” he begins. “From the other universe, he wanted to kill Chuck. For leaving his universe behind. He was the only thing that could do it. And he needed me.”

“It is true I harbor resentment for this world,” Michael says. “And resentment toward my father for abandoning it. He is the reason all my brothers are dead. It took you casting me into hell to see that.”

“If there is any chance that this could go right, that we work together and make this a fair fight again, I want to take it.”

“How do you know that once my father is gone, Amara will not simply take his place?” Michael’s gaze searches Dean’s eyes, and a ripple of fear runs through him. “That I will not simply take his place?”

Dean blinks. “I don’t.”

Michael smiles.

“Chuck controls everything,” Dean says. “He brought us into the world, he’s taking us out. He’s going to erase everything we’ve ever done and make us kill each other just for some sick joke, and I’m not sure we can stop it.”

Michael’s smile only widens. “If you truly believed that, you would not be here.”

The smile looks misplaced on Adam’s face, like a grimace stained in blood. Dean wants to rip it off, wants to tear Michael out of his brother’s body and cast him off into the Empty. He wants it all to be over. He wants to rest, to come back, to say goodbye.

“Two things.” Dean says. Michael raises an eyebrow. “I only want two things.”

He waits for an objection, a denial, for his body to be forcibly taken. Nothing happens. Michael continues to stare at him, and then makes an impatient gesture.

“This only ends one of two ways,” Dean continues. “Either we both die, or Chuck dies. No matter what, I’m not the one to kill Sammy. And no matter what, you let me say goodbye.”

Michael regards him, lips pulling up in a sneer. “What makes you think that I would give anything to you? That I would do anything for you?”

“Because we both have the same goal,” Dean says. “And we’re both the only thing either of us has left on the table.”

Michael scoffs. He comes closer, gently folding his fingers into the front of Dean’s shirt. Dean tries not to tremble. The wind buffets against him, rain and dirt splattering against his face, raging in its howl.

“You are not a righteous man,” Michael says. “You’ve sinned without repent. You’ve cast me down. Worse than that, you have been beyond the scope of this universe, worn by a lesser form. You have been tainted.”

Dean swallows the lump in his throat, the burn of acceptance behind the words. “I was made for you.”

Michael stares into his eyes. Where the other Michael was cold and calculating, this one holds something ragged, something unhinged. Just before Dean has a chance to feel more afraid, he smiles.

“Luckily for you,” Michael croons. “I’ve lowered my standards.”

His hand comes up quick, like a viper, to snatch Dean’s face within his fingers. Michael’s eyes burn bright blue, and Dean can begin to feel himself unraveling, can see the fires in the field burn brighter, sees his brother in a white suit, sees the end and the end and the end and it’s him –

“ _Dean_!”

He blinks, and the graveyard is gone. The muted colors of the war room swim around him, and it takes a second for him to realize where he is, who he is. The hand cradling his jaw is attached to Sam, whose eyes are staring at him, imploring. Sam meets his gaze and makes a sound in the back of his throat. His face is growing older with worry lines. Dean thinks he did that.

“Dean,” Sam huffs out, and drops his hand. “Hey, man. You okay? You went somewhere, just…clocked out.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding briskly. He ignores the way his vision swims, the nausea sitting in the base of his throat. He takes a step back away from Sam; his brother frowns. “Yeah, I mean, I dunno. Was just thinkin’, I guess.”

Sam stares at him. “Yeah.”

Dean wants to disappear. He feels the gentle hold of Michael’s fingers entwined in his shirt, just barely grazing his skin. He feels the rain on his skin, and how it didn’t even begin to make him feel clean.

“You, just.” Sam wipes a hand over his face, and then takes both of his gigantic mitts and clasps both sides of Dean’s shoulders. He lowers him down into a chair behind him, at the table. He looks like he has words resting on his tongue, but Dean can’t remember for the life of him what they were talking about. With every passing second Stull retreats farther and farther away, but Dean can still feel it like it’s really happening, like it’s still happening. “You stay there for a moment, okay? I’m gonna get you some water.”

“Sam –” His brother is already retreating, digging his phone out of his pocket and texting frantically. Dean looks around the room, feeling the stir in his chest. Everything is very quiet. He strains his ears and can hear Sam fumbling with the glasses in the cabinet, hears as one drops and shatters on the floor. Sam curses, and then there’s Eileen’s voice, quiet and gentle. He blinks at the wall as her voice fades away into a never-ending, relentless static. The atmosphere vanishes from the room, and time disappears. Dean looks away.

Billie is waiting on the steps to the library. She stares at him as Dean stares back, a silent war of contemplation.

“Have I finally got your attention, Dean?” She asks, slowly walking down the short steps. The clack of her shoes echoes throughout the room. “Or are you, for the first time in your life, just speechless?”

Dean swallows. “Was it real?”

“All of it is real.” Billie turns her head slightly, regarding him. “Everything is a possibility. We live in one of an infinite amount of universes. But in this universe, you die one way.”

He can hear Sam walking back down the hallway. He can feel the rain on his skin. He can see Adam’s mangled body falling, crashing back into the ground, and the power surge within his veins. He can feel himself, no longer breathing. There is nothing else but this.

He can feel the wind. Why can’t he hear it?

“Do you see it now, Dean?” Billie asks. “Do you see how this has to end?”

**Author's Note:**

> So, there's no way all that was in that black book was Michael taking over Dean and ruling the world. No way that the only way out was the Malek box, which was destroyed by Jack.
> 
> I personally believe that the Malek box wasn't even a part of the book or Dean's fate, but something used to stall Michael's release and/or the inevitable ending. Wouldn't it be much more rich and interesting for Dean to be aware of his death in a way that none of the other characters are informed of, and that's why none of the plans go through to fruition (the Malek box, killing Jack, etc.)?
> 
> I like to be vague on my endings and metaphors but to be clear for once, the main portion of this story including the lead up to Micheal re-possessing Dean is a fantasy shown to Dean by Billie of an alternate universe where that is the way he dies. She uses this to scare him and further inform him of what he needs to do in order to fulfill his own death in the real canon universe, the manner of which is unknown to everyone else, including the reader.
> 
> Or they're all just prophetic dreams and being possessed by Michael is Dean's fate after all. Whichever your fancy.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Follow me on tumblr at themostexcellentfinder or send me a message if you like any of my stuff! :)


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